


Flyers Black

by McSpot



Series: Home [2]
Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Supernatural Elements, Crack Treated Seriously, M/M, Philadelphia Flyers, creepy af
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-08
Updated: 2019-11-08
Packaged: 2021-01-25 05:35:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,072
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21351076
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/McSpot/pseuds/McSpot
Summary: “They don’t get it.” Giroux had skated closer again, smile secretive now, like he and Paul were conspiring together.  “Nobody understands the way it makes us feel.  This place.  The Orange.  But how could they?  They aren’t a part of us.”“I am not a part of anything,” Paul hissed.“Oh, you’re already a part of it, Paulie.  Fight it all you want, but you’ll come home one day.”Some parts of a whole are bigger than others.
Relationships: Paul Martin/James Neal
Series: Home [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1539196
Comments: 51
Kudos: 118





	Flyers Black

**Author's Note:**

> My intention was to finish this by Halloween, but real life had other plans. In a serendipitous case of laryngitis I was able to stay home the last day and a half and finish this and it was much longer than I'd ever intended, seeing as it was supposed to be the length of the first fic. Unedited and written while very sick.
> 
> This will not make sense unless you read Flyers Orange first and even then it won't make sense.

Looking back, maybe he'd always felt it.

It hadn't felt new, after all, the first time he'd looked across the ice and seen an orange jersey that sent a flicker of warmth through his chest. It was familiar, a comfortable old friend, the same spark of recognition he'd probably always felt since he'd been a kid back in Minnesota, sitting too close to the television until the light made his face shine blue.

And orange. He remembered that, how his head had snapped to the tv, watching the game with more focus than was usually feasible for a four year old.

"What's that?" he'd asked. This close, the image seemed grainy, flickering, but it did nothing to hide the bright, bright orange. If he leaned close enough, it was all he could see, filling the edges of his vision until its warmth was all he knew.

Maybe, it was all he was.

"That's too close, bud." He startled when his father's big, warm hands settled under his arms and gently slid him a few feet back from the tv. Unbidden, he leaned forward again, stare trained on the swarm of orange against white ice.

"Those are the Philadelphia Flyers. They're not anywhere as cool as our North Stars, right?"

At this, Paul's gaze snapped to his father's as a big grin spilled across his face.

"Right!"

Absolutely nothing in the whole world could have been as cool as the Minnesota North Stars.

But that didn't stop his eyes from sliding back to those orange jerseys, chasing that happy glow, the way he'd felt when he got to hug his aunt's new puppy or when his mom tucked him in on a snowy night.

Safe and calm and happy and bright.

He didn't follow the Flyers, as he grew up. He definitely wasn't a fan. Most of the time he didn't have any thoughts about them at all.

But when he did think of them, he always felt that spark in his chest. Curious, maybe. Intrigued.

Paul had hockey to play. It was easy to push it from his mind.

He felt a lot happier, after all, thinking about his own team.

It shifted to the back of his mind, just a strange automatic reaction his brain had to a certain stimulus. Just like how the smell of cinnamon reminded him of Christmas at his grandma's house, and the taste of Cuervo turned his stomach because he associated it with the first time he got truly drunk in college and spent the whole night vomiting. He saw orange, and he felt safe and warm.

Weirder things had happened.

Paul didn't think about it that much, not until he was twenty-two years old and found himself standing on the ice in a New Jersey Devils jersey, facing off against a wall of white and orange away jerseys. It struck him as a little odd, just for a moment, the way his eyes kept getting stuck on the shoulders of the jerseys, the orange yoke.

It struck him as odd, but it didn't bother him very much. Sinking into it felt good, felt normal.

It was-

"Wake up, Paulie."

Scott Niedermayer's stick landed heavily against his ass and Paul jolted, blinking the orange-tinted haze from his eyes. The ice had cleared, everyone skating off after warm-ups, headed back to the dressing room to get ready for the game. The only ones left were the few skaters who insisted on being the last off every time.

And Paul, staring blankly at the shoulder of one of their jerseys.

He didn't even know who that guy was.

"I'm sorry," he murmured, ducking his head as he skated off the ice. "I don't...guess I got lost there for a minute."

Scott's smile was good-natured. "Happened to all of us when we were rookies, but try not to make a habit of it. Especially during a game."

Paul forced his face to contort into something similar to a grin, but his mind was eighteen years ago back in Minnesota, watching those orange jerseys on tv.

He'd never lost time like that before. But it hadn't felt like losing time. He'd felt like he was conscious the whole time, he'd known what he was doing.

It had just been so...

_Soothing_.

A shudder did not do justice for the feeling that skittered down Paul's spine, but he violently forced the thought from his mind all the same.

It was less than a full month into his rookie season; he didn't need to be zoning out on the ice now.

The Devils pulled out the win, but Paul didn't contribute to it.

They played the Flyers again in December, and it wasn't as bad because Paul was preparing for it. His eyes followed the puck like they'd been tied to it with a string, because the moment his gaze landed on orange, he was lost. He only let it get him once, on the bench during a break in play, staring at Justin William's shoulder until one of the assistant coaches tapped him none-too-gently on the back of the head with a clipboard and told him to get his head in the game.

The shame of being caught kept his eyes firmly on the puck after that.

Paul would have put it from his mind just like last time, if they weren't playing a home-and-home series with the Flyers. They were driving to Philadelphia that night.

He wanted to say the feeling in his stomach was the heavy weight of dread, but he knew that was a lie.

Some strange part of him was excited, squirming with anticipation. He couldn't wait to go to Philadelphia, and maybe that scared him the most of all.

The bus ride was only about ninety minutes, but Paul somehow managed to fall asleep all the same, coming down from the adrenaline of the game, of whatever else had been kicking around his head that night.

He woke up to a soft whisper in his ear, a gentle nudge against his side that had him blinking bleary eyes at the dark road outside his window.

Lit up in dreary orange streetlights was a sign welcoming him to Philadelphia.

The sight filled him with an unsettling mixture of fear and delight that kept him so on edge that he didn't even begin to calm down until he reached his hotel room.

He wouldn't realize for quite some time that the seat next to him on the bus had been empty the entire trip.

It turned out that his dread had been entirely founded.

Walking into Wachovia Center was stepping into a warm bath after a hard workout, and Paul nearly stumbled with how hard it hit him, the sheer relief of it. He'd been on edge his whole life, and now he could finally settle. Each staggering step took him deeper, weighing him down and keeping him grounded and yet drawing him up and away, expanding, drawing him further into where he was always meant to be, where he _belonged_-

"Visitor's room is over here, Paulie."

Gio's face swam into view in front of him, smiling, teasing the rookie, but it was the Devils crest on his hat that caught Paul's attention.

It felt discordant, wrong. That didn't belong here, in a place like this, where-

The thoughts slid away the harder Paul tried to grasp onto them, to step back and understand.

He couldn't even follow his own thoughts, couldn't understand why the sight of his own team's logo had filled him with such disgust.

Looking down at his feet, pointed off down the hall instead of towards the dressing room he'd almost passed, he wasn't sure where he'd even been going. He'd never been here before.

_Or maybe_, that syrupy voice that sounded nothing like Paul and exactly like him whispered, _he'd been here all along_.

He was supposed to be afraid to step out onto the ice that evening. He was supposed to be shaking, quivering with fear of the unknown, of this strange feeling inside of him that was growing by the moment. He probably should have told a doctor, but that would have meant acknowledging he thought it was real, whatever bizarre manifestation of his brain was making him feel like his world was falling apart at the seams and remaking it into something he couldn't recognize and yet had known all his life.

Paul should have done those things.

But when he stepped onto the ice at Wachovia Center, he stepped out of his body.

It was immediate, a heady thing, the sight of those orange home jerseys not just across the ice but surrounding him on all sides, thousands of them in the stands, as far as he could see, filling his vision, filling him.

They'd always been inside of him, but now he was inside of _it_, right where he belonged, where he was always meant to be. It didn't call to him, but it didn't have to. He was home now, and he wouldn't be leaving, could never leave, not when every cell in his body had slowed to half-speed and the world turned to liquid warmth. He wasn't a _he_, anymore, never had been, because _he_ was separate but Paul was together now, was-

The world slipped out from under him and Paul caught himself at the last moment with his gloves against the ice, stopping himself from breaking his nose with just inches to spare. It was white, the ice, just like every other ice Paul had ever known, and yet he could tell immediately how _right_ it was, how it was different, better. He wanted to dig into it, scrape away layer after layer until he reached the heart and bury himself there, become part of it, immovable.

He wanted to-

"Paulie, are you okay, man?"

Skates in his vision, blocking out the ice, just before a set of hands hauled him up by his shoulders until he was settled on his knees. Stevie's concerned face swam into focus, paternal in the way that only a long-time captain on the verge of retirement could be.

Paul tried to focus on that, tried to look at his eyes, but the crowd was so loud, and _everywhere_, and his eyes slid away for a moment too long, dipping back into the orange.

"Okay, come on, we're going to see the trainers." The set of Stevie's mouth was grim, and somehow Paul knew immediately that he didn't want to do that. He didn't want to be pulled from a game, not for no reason at all in his rookie season, but also-

If he got pulled, they'd take him away from the orange.

In that moment he felt, sincerely, like that might kill him.

"No, I'm fine." It was a gasp, like he'd burst up through waves after nearly drowning, but he didn't feel like he'd been choking. He felt stoned, heavy and lethargic.

Definitely not the way he was supposed to feel right before a game.

But if guys played through injuries all the time, he could play through this.

Stevie didn't look like he believed him one bit, but Paul scrambled to his feet, pretending his skates didn't nearly slip out from under him more than once. "I'm good, I swear," he insisted. When Stevie kept frowning, he added, "I'm probably just a little dehydrated."

The self-deprecating smile seemed to do it. Stevie patted him on the shoulder, shaking his head. "Then go drink a Gatorade or something. God, kid, you can't be letting the little things like that go, it'll fuck up your game and you'll be passing out on the ice."

Paul nodded solemnly and skated to the bench. He gulped down half a bottle of Gatorade before he felt Stevie's eyes leave him.

But the feeling never did. That warm, soothing, welcoming feeling that the arena gave him. That the _Flyers_ gave him.

It stayed with him, even as each step he took away from Philadelphia felt lighter and lighter.

It lived there in the back of his mind, quiet, patiently waiting.

The Orange.

He never saw anyone else react to it. Oh, people reacted to playing the _Flyers_, usually with a few choice words about what particular parts of anatomy they could be compared to, but nobody else got...like Paul.

Like they were stoned, or drowning, or maybe a combination of the two, all just from the color orange. Not just any orange, but _Flyers_ orange.

Which made it pretty clear that the problem was within Paul himself.

And he could imagine with perfect clarity what would happen if he tried to explain the situation to the medical staff. At first it would be concern, questions about possible concussions, then an MRI. In a best-case scenario they'd find out he had a brain tumor or something, which would end his career right there.

But if the tests all came up negative, their faces would get more wary, as they'd turn towards _alternative explanations_ and start questioning Paul's fitness as a player.

Paul was a promising young player, as many publications and reporters had informed him, but even he knew that something like that would make him more trouble than he was worth.

No, he had to deal with this on his own if he ever wanted a shot at a real NHL career.

Paul was more prepared, when he faced it again over the years. He braced himself, knew what to expect, knew how to defend himself. He didn't know quite _what_ he was defending himself from, but he felt he was doing it fairly well.

Focus on your teammates. Don't look at the orange. Don't look at the crowd. Don't look at the Flyers logo at center ice. Look at your logo. Don't look at the orange. Keep your eyes on the puck. Don't look at the orange. Think about the play don't look at the Orange. Focus on your manDON'TLOOKATTHEORANGE-

It snuck up on him, sometimes, seductive in its simplicity. Paul had to think about not letting it get to him, but it took no thought at all for it to suck him in. He felt like a stranger in his own mind, like there was this thing inside of him that wasn't him at all, but he couldn't imagine what it would be other than him.

He should have seen a doctor. He should have seen a therapist.

But he was young, and he was scared shitless, and he was a hockey player. When anything scared a young hockey player, the immediate response was to pretend it wasn't happening and suppress it. Hockey wasn't a culture of being open about your concerns that you were losing your mind. Not if you wanted to keep playing.

And so Paul kept his mouth shut and his eyes on the puck, and tried to pretend he'd never even seen the color orange.

Everything changed when the Philadelphia Flyers drafted Claude Giroux.

That was when the Orange gained a face, and a name.

Claude Giroux felt like something the Orange had created for itself, a physical manifestation of a sensation Paul had never been able to accurately describe. It oozed out of him, draped over him like a cloak – no, like a cat, fat and sated after it caught the canary, purring and sleepy, the predator in repose.

Smug, knowing it had won.

It was bizarre, transposed on this floppy-haired _kid_, baby-faced and absolutely glowing with his hero worship for Danny Briere. Giroux was objectively about as intimidating as a broken spork, made even more ridiculous when Paul caught wind of his on-ice chirping.

But then his eyes had caught Paul's during a break in play and he'd frozen in place. And his gaze had gone through Paul, a million miles away and yet boring a hole into his soul, as a Cheshire grin spread across his cheeks.

"You're like me," he breathed. He skated closer as if drawn, as if he wasn't aware of his feet.

Paul couldn't have moved if he'd tried.

Then Giroux was up in his face with that disturbing, glazed expression, and whispered joyously, "You're _us_."

Recoiling wasn't something that Paul had planned; it was all animal instinct, catching the scent of danger on the wind, knowing there was a predator on the ice and that it was out for blood.

"I don't know what you're talking about," he'd hissed, eyes darting around them, hoping, fucking praying that someone would get nosy and come over to see what the two of them could possibly have to discuss.

Giroux giggled, _giggled_, like a giddy little kid.

Or like he was high.

"Look at you," he murmured. Paul's words were clearly meaningless to him. "What are you doing all the way over there?"

They were standing a foot apart, but on the ice in Wachovia Center, Paul could interpret him perfectly.

"I play for the Devils."

Giroux scoffed and shook his head, grinning like Paul had just told him the funniest joke. His eyes were...there wasn't a word for that. For the way that they were flat and glazed and yet something lurked just behind them, fathomless and...soothing.

"We all know you don't belong there. Just look at you!"

Paul didn't feel much like trying to interpret just what, exactly, he was supposed to be looking at. He skated backwards a few feet, eyes trained on the ice crew, who could not have been scraping more slowly if they tried. Surely the commercial break couldn't last that long.

"Just look at _what_?"

He expected the giggles that time. He didn't expect Giroux reaching up and tugging on one of his own orange curls.

"You're one of us. It marked you for us."

"I don't know what you're talking about."

The words were out of Paul's mouth before he could think about them, tossed down like a grenade. Like a last line of defense.

But he knew what Giroux meant. And in the sick way that he could feel the Orange emanating off of Giroux with his every breath, Paul could tell that Giroux was right.

It was their hair. Red hair, ginger, the both of them.

_Orange_ hair.

_Marked._

"They don't get it." Giroux had skated closer again, smile secretive now, like he and Paul were conspiring together. "Nobody understands the way it makes us feel. This place. The Orange. But how could they? They aren't a part of us."

"_I_ am not a part of anything," Paul hissed. The ice crew was just sweeping the last shavings into their bins, and some of Paul's teammates were skating back to their positions for the next faceoff.

The look in Giroux's eyes only got more catlike, wide and narrowed at the same time. He licked his lips in anticipation.

"Oh, you're already a part of it, Paulie. Fight it all you want, but you'll come home one day."

He pressed their shoulders together, dropped his head so that his mouth was near Paul's ear.

"And when you do, we'll be ready to welcome you with open arms."

Paul shoved him away, shuddering and unsure of what, exactly, he was trying to prevent.

Or if it was something he'd even want to prevent.

He made it a second career to avoid Giroux as much as was physically possible, which was easy enough when they weren't on the same team. Whenever the Devils were set to play the Flyers in either city, he made a point of keeping close to his teammates. He had a more than sneaking suspicion that Giroux would be unlikely to talk about the Orange with someone else there.

Someone who wasn't a part of it.

He still didn't know what that meant. Other teams didn't have this...thing with their redheaded players. If the Flyers had been that obvious since he was a child, he was sure he'd have picked up on it by now if it happened with other teams too.

It was also pretty obvious now that he thought about it that none of his teammates had ever acknowledged the pull of the Orange because they weren't...right for it.

_Marked_, Giroux had said.

And that was the crux of the whole issue, because Paul needed to know more about this, to understand what the fuck was actually _happening_, what the Orange actually was, what it was for. But the only other person who seemed to understand it was creepy as hell and set on trying to get Paul to...what, join him in some sort of cult? Hive mind?

Paul didn't have a clue what any of this actually _was_, but the only person he could ask was not exactly someone he could trust.

Not with those eyes.

And it was evidently clear that everybody else around him would think he was absolutely insane.

So if understanding more about the Orange wasn't possible, then the next best solution was to distance himself from it as much as possible, to limit his exposure and the temptation to...give in? But to _what_?

He ignored that syrupy voice in the back of his head that insisted that he already knew.

Avoiding the Flyers was pretty easy the next year, when he missed three quarters of the season with a fractured arm. It made the rest of his life shit, but at least he wasn't getting harassed by Giroux.

Until he came home from the grocery store one day while his arm was still in a cast and found an orange envelope in his mailbox.

His heart pounded in his throat. He knew what it was, and yet as if magnetically drawn, he couldn't resist picking it up and opening it.

Inside was a card with the Flyers logo on it. He should have stopped then, should have thrown it out because he _knew_ that Giroux was just fucking with him.

He opened it.

_Get well soon_, it said. _We miss you. When are you coming home?_

It was signed with a heart and a _G_.

Paul shoved it in the garbage immediately, like it was toxic, like he'd be infected just from looking at it a moment longer. He'd forced himself to move, to put the groceries away, to start on dinner.

But even when he went to bed that night he could still feel it there, calling out to him.

A homing beacon.

Just once, he tried bringing it up to a teammate.

"Have you ever noticed anything...strange, about the Flyers?" he asked Patrik one day when he was in for physical therapy. Patrik Elias had been in the league for a long time; surely of all of the Devils, he would have noticed something by now.

Patrik frowned at him, eyes narrowed indecipherably. "Strange how?"

Paul swallowed and glanced away, trying to quash the flush he was sure was beginning to form. That was part of being ginger, after all, being quick to turn red.

He wondered if Claude was like that too- _Giroux_.

"Um, y'know, with the..." Paul couldn't resist checking to make sure nobody was paying attention before saying quietly, "The Orange."

"...Yes, they wear orange."

There was no stopping the flush now, no matter how hard he stared at the floor. "I know but like...do you ever get a weird feeling from Giroux?"

"The kid?" He could hear the frown in Patrik's voice. "No, why?"

"No reason. Just...wondering. Thanks. I better be...the trainers wanted to talk to me."

He froze when Patrik's hand landed on his good arm. His eyes were painfully sincere, mildly parental in a way they had no right to be when he and Paul were only five years apart in age.

"Paulie, are you okay?"

Paul swallowed reflexively and smiled in what he prayed was a convincing manner. It was the same smile he wore when he spoke to his mom on the phone and tried to insist that he was on the mend and feeling well and the doctors said he'd play again in no time.

"Yeah, of course. Thanks for asking."

He left to go find the trainers before Patrik could ask any more questions. But he could still feel eyes on his back as he walked away.

That was the last time he tried to ask somebody about the Orange.

Paul was back in time to lose to the Flyers in the first round of the playoffs that year. He was able to avoid getting caught alone with Giroux, at least, right up until the handshake line at the end of the series.

Giroux, for once, didn't say much. But he still had that odd glint to his eyes, that strange smile on his face. When Paul went in for a handshake Giroux pulled him into a hug instead.

"We missed you, Paulie," he said against Paul's ear. His gloved hand stroked over Paul's arm, the same one he'd been rehabbing half the season.

Paul shuddered and pulled away, but Giroux was already moving on, still smiling.

He was shaken up the rest of the handshake line, perhaps even more perfunctory than one would normally be, mind still back on what Giroux had said.

So he wasn't expecting it when Hartnell clapped him on the back and asked, "When are you coming home?"

Paul dreamed of orange jerseys that night. He woke up in a cold sweat at four in the morning, breathing hard and flinching at shadows in the corners of his room.

It was a good dream.

Perhaps signing a contract with the Pittsburgh Penguins wouldn't help Paul avoid the Philadelphia Flyers – quite the opposite, actually – but it was a great opportunity for him. And he had to admit it felt like there would be safety in numbers; it was perfectly fair for a Penguins player to go out of their way to avoid a Flyer, or to be openly rude to them.

Paul figured he'd fit in just fine.

The one thing that would always make coming to Pittsburgh worth the hassle of dealing with Philly's bullshit on a regular basis, was when James Neal was traded to the Penguins at the trade deadline that first year.

Nealer was...Paul never quite had words for what James Neal meant to him. They were more than just teammates, more than friends. Paul was the one thing Nealer wanted to take with him to a desert island, and Nealer...

He was Paul's person. They fit together in a sort of odd-couple fashion that got them more than a few chirps from their teammates, but Paul couldn't bring himself to care. He'd never had a friend like James, someone who blended into his life so seamlessly it was like they'd always been made to be together.

It wasn't romantic. Not yet, maybe, or not ever. Paul thought about it sometimes, when Nealer had a few too many drinks and looked at him with bright eyes, lips edging into that magazine-cover smile. They'd never talked about it, drunk or otherwise. It never felt like the right time.

But then, it didn't feel like they had to talk about it. They both knew they were the type of codependent that far surpassed _best friends_, but they'd never kissed, never put a hand on the other's knee as a sign they wanted something more.

It was something beyond labeling. They just...belonged, right from the start.

Paul thought, maybe that's what love was.

Until James asked him if he also felt like the Flyers had drugged them because playing them made him feel sedated and happy at the same time.

He'd never noticed it before. Nealer's beard. Of course he'd _seen_ it, in the same way that he'd seen Nealer's hair or his ridiculous outfits. But he'd never really looked at it before.

Nealer's hair was so dark. It had never occurred to him that even with his dark hair, his beard was so, so red.

_Ginger_.

_Marked_.

He'd told James to ignore it, to avoid the Flyers and never let them catch him alone. He'd warned him away from Claude Giroux in particular, but he wasn't sure that would be enough. There were so many more of them now, Hartnell, Voracek, Couturier, Raffl. Red hair, red beards. All of them with some sort of ginger tint.

All of them marked.

The Orange was growing more powerful. It was starting to call people home.

Paul was always careful with James, after that. He couldn't help but wonder, whenever James didn't shave for a while and his scruff started to grow in, how much of this was real. How much of their connection was because they were two good friends who fit together well, and how much was...preordained. Destined.

Two parts of a whole coming together again.

He'd shudder and look away, every time, and Nealer would give him one of his ridiculous frowns that somehow still managed to look attractive. It felt bad, making Nealer frown like that, making him wonder why Paul would suddenly clam up or pull away or go quiet.

Some days he could ignore it, could act like everything was just as it always had been, just the two of them against the world.

But then James's beard would glint in the light, or he'd make a comment about Paul's hair, and Paul swore he could hear Giroux's voice whispering, _You're us_.

Or maybe that was just the voice in his head.

He tried to keep James safe. It felt easier, as he got older, to face the Orange time and again and not let it affect him so strongly. Not looking at the Orange had become second nature. (Seeking it out was his first.) He got used to entering Wells Fargo Center and expecting the wave to wash over him, that bone-deep feeling of finally coming home after a weeks-long road trip, tension seeping out of his body and just wanting to lay down and nap after a good workout.

The building may have changed its name, but the Orange was just the same as always.

Giroux was the captain now, which Paul had seen coming for years. It had nothing to do with skill on the ice, and everything to do with how he embodied the spirit of the team.

It made sense for the vessel of the Orange to lead its team.

Paul stuck close to James whenever they played Philly, made sure there wasn't a chance for Giroux to get to him.

But that didn't stop Giroux from finding _him_ one day after morning skate, ambushing him as he came out of the dressing room and tugging him into an alcove.

"Let go of me!" Paul yanked his arm away, but it was like Giroux didn't even feel him, his grip on Paul's wrist sure, familiar.

His eyes were beautiful and bright and dropped Paul's heart to his stomach.

"It's really sweet, what you're doing," he said, rubbing his thumb over the knob of Paul's wrist. "Protecting one of our own like that."

Paul could feel it welling up around him, warm coils of a snake settling over him, tightening with each pass of Giroux's finger.

But that warmth was shattered when he realized what Giroux was talking about.

"You leave him the fuck out of this," he hissed.

This time, when he pulled, Giroux let go of his arm.

Giroux scoffed, made a show of rolling his eyes. "We're not going to hurt him, Paulie. He's one of us!"

That awful smile was back. "That's why we think it's sweet, that you're taking care of him like that. Even trapped in the wrong place, you're together. You see each other."

Paul didn't see his hand creeping up until it was tugging at a piece of Paul's hair; he jerked his head away hard enough that it cracked into the wall behind him.

Giroux tutted chidingly. He was still smiling.

"It doesn't help to fight it, Paulie. You'll both come home soon enough."

"Oh yeah, I'm sure your GM will get right on it."

He didn't expect Giroux to laugh. "You know, sometimes he does. You've seen it, haven't you? We traded for Jake, we signed Raff, we drafted Sean. Somehow, we just keep coming together."

Giroux winked. "Look around you, babe. Somehow, nobody's shown up to interrupt us?"

He gave Paul a moment to look around them. The hallway should have been flooded with players and personnel, and yet it wasn't. It was perfectly silent.

And warm.

"What can I say? The Orange takes care of us."

His hand landed on Paul's shoulder, big and warm. It wasn't as startling as it should have been. "You keep taking care of our boy, and when you're ready, we'll take care of you, too."

With a squeeze to Paul's shoulder he was gone, cheerfully whistling down the hall, gently dragging his fingers along the wall as he went.

Paul had stayed in that corner for a long moment, eyes closed, trying to breathe. But whenever he blinked he saw orange on the back of his eyelids.

Maybe it was a blessing when James was traded to Nashville.

At least Paul knew that if he was in another conference, it was a lot less likely that the Flyers could get to him.

Going to the western conference was a blessing for Paul too. He loved playing for the Sharks, loved how well he fit in there. There was less media pressure in San Jose, and best of all, they only saw the Flyers twice a year.

There was also a notable lack of gingers.

Paul pretended not to notice the color of Pavelski's beard, when he let it grow in for the playoffs. If he didn't point it out, maybe the Orange wouldn't see him, either.

He knew when his career was coming to an end. It was sooner than he'd ever have liked, but injury was keeping him sidelined, and when he made it back to the ice, he was never going to be as fast as the younger kids coming up.

By the time Paul was bounced to the Barracuda, he could see the writing on the wall. He wasn't long for the NHL.

In a sick way, he was relieved.

If this was how he went out, at least the Flyers could never get to him.

That last year before the buyout, he spent time with the Sharks and the Barracuda. Joakim Ryan was there doing the same thing, a left-handed defenseman trying to keep his place in the NHL. But he was on the other end of it from Paul, twelve years younger and just trying to make a name for himself, not battling to end his career with a bang instead of a whimper.

He was also very, very ginger. Hair, beard, all of it.

Just once, Paul brought it up to him, when the Barracuda were out for drinks on a road trip.

"Do you ever notice what it's like in Philly?" he asked. It was less noticeable against the Phantoms, but there was still some of that pull there, the tendrils of the Orange weaving their way down into the AHL.

Joakim had given him a long look. And then, very quietly, he said, "I like it there."

Paul nodded and looked away, thought it over with a long sip of beer.

"I know. But...you have to be careful. They draw people in, and they...it changes you."

Joakim was far younger than Paul, and probably knew a lot less of what they were talking about. But Paul would never forget the look on his face when he cocked his head to the side and asked, "Would that be so bad? To stay?"

He didn't have an answer for that.

In a bittersweet way, retirement suited Paul. James told him it was because he'd been an old man from the day he was born and now he could live out his old man dreams in peace.

It was true, he liked being able to settle into a routine at home without having to worry about all of the travel, or if sleeping on a plane would mess up his back. He enjoyed being able to cheat on his diet, and see his family whenever he wanted. For the first time since he was a kid, he got to watch the first snow fall in Minnesota, and have every holiday with his family without a looming deadline in his head for when he'd have to rush back to his team. Every morning Paul could wake up and have his coffee and read the full newspaper, front to back, and every night he could make whatever he wanted for dinner and settle down on the couch to say all of the answers to Jeopardy out loud without anyone to complain about it

He missed hockey like a phantom limb, but there was a peace to this, to the predictability, to not having to wonder every day if he was about to be traded or bought out, where he'd be playing next year, next month, next week.

Of course, he still watched hockey. Not every game, but he followed the Sharks, texted chirps to Jumbo and Pavs.

He and James still spoke more than was perhaps normal for two former teammates who hadn't played together in almost five years, but he told himself it was safer now. James was playing in Calgary, Paul was retired in Minnesota, and they were both well over a thousand miles from Philadelphia and whatever colors came with it.

Paul had almost laughed, when James was traded to Edmonton. _The wrong orange_, he'd thought with a grin.

The whisper in the back of his head made a noise like a disgruntled cat, and that made Paul enjoy it all the more.

Until he got the alert on his phone that James Neal had been traded to the Philadelphia Flyers before the preseason had even started, for future considerations and a bag of pucks.

_Neal's underperformance last season has greatly lowered his trade value_, the critics all said.

Paul thought, after he finished heaving into his toilet, that the Orange controlled more than just Philadelphia's management team.

He was surprised how quickly James picked up the phone.

"Paulie!" He sounded happy. Thrilled.

_Stoned_, he could hear James's voice say, years ago in Pittsburgh when Paul had insisted that ignoring the Flyers would magically keep James safe.

God, what a fool he'd been, to think he could just will this away by pretending it wasn't happening. To think that this wasn't something bigger than him, something bigger than all of them, bigger than the league itself.

Of course it was bigger than them. They were just pieces of the whole, after all. They weren't meant to exist separate from each other.

"Hi Nealer." The words shook, difficult to dislodge from his throat. "Where are you?"

He had a sick feeling that he already knew.

"Claude took me home!"

Perhaps Paul had left the bathroom a bit too early.

_Claude_, Nealer said, like they were so close already.

_Home_.

They probably were.

_Parts of a whole_, the voice whispered joyfully.

"James, do you remember what we talked about?" He kept his voice low, like somehow Claude would be here in his living room, listening in. "About how dangerous the Flyers are?"

He hated how familiar James's pouting noise was, that he could picture his expression perfectly.

"I don't know why you told me to fight it, Paulie. It's natural for us to go home. I'm so happy here, and I only just got here."

Bile rose in the back of Paul's throat again. He swallowed it back, clenching his eyes shut and gripping his phone until he was afraid he'd crack it.

"You were excited to play in Edmonton," he said through gritted teeth.

James made a dismissive sound. "Maybe, but that's nothing like coming _home_. Paulie, why did we wait so long?"

He paused, and then quickly said, "Paulie, you're coming too, right? You gotta, it's so nice to belong."

"You belonged before!" Paul shouted, because it was either yell or sob. "You were happy everywhere you went! Your teammates loved you, I-"

He bit back the words, wouldn't let them come to fruition.

But James knew what he was going to say, and stabbed him with it.

"Of course you love me, Paulie," James said softly. "We're the same."

He fumbled to hang up the call before he really did throw up.

Paul didn't know how long he sat there like that, hunched against the wall on his bathroom floor, knees pulled to his chest, ignoring every text and call that came through. He'd long since removed his glasses; they were too tear-smudged to see anything anyways.

It had always been his fear that his love for James was manufactured at birth by the same bizarre twist of DNA that made him fascinated with the jersey of a team he didn't even like. But he'd sworn to himself that it had to be something more than that. He'd played with other redheads before – guys with red beards, guys with red hair. He'd never felt about them the way that he did about James.

But they'd never addressed it. They'd never discussed their connection, never put words to it.

And now Nealer was acknowledging it, just to say that it really had just been the Orange, all this time.

The Orange, always there in the back of his head, manipulating his life in small pushes and tugs. Choosing where you went, what you liked.

Who you loved.

What had any of it been for, anyway?

Paul was retired, and the Philadelphia Flyers were still controlling his life.

Not anymore.

He stood up, ran a hand over his face.

Fuck it, if the Orange was going to manipulate everything he did anyway, might as well bring the fight to it, right?

Because he wasn't going to let James go without a fight.

Orange or not, he knew what they had was something more. He couldn't imagine ever feeling about anyone the way he felt about James. Even if the Orange really had been the thing that initially brought them together, it was more than that now.

He just had to remind James of that.

Paul felt like he was running on pure adrenaline the entire way to Philadelphia. Adrenaline, and spite.

Dread bloomed in his gut as the plane touched down and warmth spread out from the base of his skull, the voice in the back of his head turning languid and smug.

Whatever. He knew what he was here for.

He could recognize the influence of the Orange now, in how easy it was for him to walk right into Wells Fargo Center on a day when it should have been overflowing with staff and press, everyone preparing for the preseason that was just days away. In this instance he ignored the goose bumps that wanted to skitter down his spine, or the way gravity seemed just a little bit heavier with each step he took.

That was how he knew he was in the right place.

For once in his life he let the Orange draw him in, let it guide his feet. He forced away the sense of relief, like a dog who had finally decided to stop fighting its master's leash and was reveling in how easy it felt to give in, to stop pulling.

This was just a means to an end.

It was like they'd staged themselves in wait for him.

Paul turned a corner and there they all were, sprawled around a player's lounge. Raffl and Voracek and Couturier, he expected. Kevin Hayes was new, but one look at the beard explained it.

And of course, Nealer and Giroux were there, sitting on a sofa in the middle of the room. Giroux's hands were carding slowly through Nealer's dark, _not ginger_ hair.

When Paul came in he looked up and smiled brightly.

"Hey, Paulie. Welcome home. We've missed you."

Nealer's head whipped around fast enough Paul worried he'd hurt himself. He shouldn't have been concerned; James's eyes were so glazed and blown-wide, he probably wouldn't have noticed if he'd lost a leg.

Not when the Orange was in him.

"Paulie!" He scrambled clumsily to a stand, and Paul had to wonder how the Flyers managed to function as a hockey team at all, if their players felt like this all the time.

A moment later James's arms were wrapping around him, clutching him in a gangly hold.

"Paulie I missed you!" His voice was too loud next to Paul's ear, but Paul still held him tight. "You hung up and didn't answer my calls and I was so worried!"

"He was really worried," Couturier repeated, reproach in his tone. Paul shot him a dirty look over Nealer's shoulder, and then leveled the same at Giroux when he added, "We were _all_ worried, Paulie."

"Don't call me that," Paul hissed. He smoothed his hand over James's back. "I'm taking James home."

He hated the way they all laughed at that, loathed it in a visceral sense that made his blood boil and his hands clench.

To his surprise, they stopped abruptly, but their fathomless eyes followed him with keen interest.

James pulled back, hands resting on Paul's shoulders. "Paulie, we _are_ home."

The voice in Paul's head _purred_, and Paul smashed it down with relish.

"This isn't your home. This isn't my home. James, this isn't you. This is some, some supernatural _thing_ that's manipulating you into doing what you don't want, and-"

"I _like_ it," James whined.

Paul's mouth closed so sharply his teeth clicked.

"I'm happy here," Nealer continued. "It wanted me to come home so bad it made the Oilers trade me. Don't you know how good it is, to feel wanted like that? After the year I had, everybody said I wasn't worth it, but it wanted me here. The team wanted me here. Wouldn't you have wanted that, when the Sharks bought you out? Wouldn't you have wanted someone to want you that badly they'd move heaven and earth to get you?"

Paul had always felt so good when James hugged him, so warm and normal and safe. But in that moment it was like the Orange had wrapped around him and held on. It was like he didn't even know James anymore.

Or maybe he knew James too well.

He wrenched himself away, stumbling backwards. All eyes were on him, deep and empty, like the Orange was watching him from all sides.

It always was, wasn't it?

"James," he said lowly, eyes darting around the room. "That's how I want _you_. None of this – this Orange bullshit. I'd do anything for you, that's why I'm here."

But James's face went confused, brow furrowed like Paul was speaking in tongues.

"Then stay here with me. Come home. That's all I want, Paulie. I want us all to be together, where we belong."

His eyes were bright, and empty.

_Orange_.

He wasn't talking to James anymore.

Unbidden, Paul could feel his eyes start to burn. It was just like when he'd been a kid, sitting too close to the tv, eyes wide until they started to sting and yet he still couldn't look away from the Orange.

He wanted to look away now. He wanted to look away, but if he did, he wasn't sure what he'd be leaving behind.

"Let me talk to Paul for a moment." He scowled at Giroux when he put a hand on Nealer's shoulder, because scowling at Giroux was easy. Giroux was always very good at pissing him off.

But Nealer nodded, big sad eyes blank and trusting. He shot Paul one last look before turning and walking directly into Voracek's arms.

Paul wondered if he'd already lost.

He cringed away when Giroux put an arm around his shoulders, but Giroux ignored him and held on, leading him out of the room. The halls were still empty, ghostlike.

"What did you do, kill your team?" Paul hissed, because the vitriol felt good.

Giroux snorted. "You know, we aren't actually evil. The Orange does what it wants, and right now it wants us to have a private place to speak. I'd say that's a pretty good thing, wouldn't you?"

"You _took him_. He was going to be happy in Edmonton!"

"You don't know that." Giroux's dismissal was calm, easy. He just as easily shoved Paul into what must have been a trainer's room. "He could have been miserable. He could have been amazing. We don't know what would have happened. But we _do_ know that he's happy here, at home. Where he belongs."

"Don't talk like you know him!" Paul knew he was yelling but he didn't care. What would it matter? Apparently nobody was around to hear anyways. "Just because of this, the fucking _Orange_, you all think you know us. You don't know a fucking thing about either of us!"

For once in his life, Giroux's smile wasn't smarmy or smug. It was gentle, soft. Understanding.

Paul wanted to punch it off his face.

"I know enough," Giroux said quietly. "I know he was hurting, and now he's happy. I know he can have a good home here – with or without the Orange. And I know you've been fighting this for so fucking long. Why keep fighting your own nature?"

He made it sound easy. He made it sound like he cared.

Paul figured most snake oil salesmen had probably sounded like that too.

"Why am I even listening to you? You're what, its fucking vessel? It made you, you're its perfect specimen. I can't trust a fucking word you say."

He didn't expect Giroux to laugh, but then, he'd never been able to expect most things that Giroux did.

"Oh my God, Paulie, is that what you think? That it, what, formed me in the basement of Wells Fargo and shipped me off to Ontario as a cover story? I may fit in perfectly here, but I didn't know a single thing about the Orange until I got to the NHL, same as everyone else."

Paul couldn't help scoffing, crossing his arms over his chest. "Don't fuck around with me, I know you're lying. It's been there my whole life, ever since I was a kid. If I felt it, you sure as fuck did, too."

He waited, quietly pleased to have left Giroux speechless if even for a moment.

But Giroux's eyes were wide, and there was something to them, something different.

Something more than the Orange.

"Your whole life?" Giroux whispered. He shook his head, laughed a little, but it wasn't the manic giggles Paul remembered from years ago. He sounded...breathless.

"Oh my God, Paulie. You think _I'm_ its vessel, and it's been with you your whole life? You know, I tried to figure out before why it only started drawing us together in the last few years? Why it's been around so long but only just woke up? Well that fucking explains it."

He laughed again, eyes bright and full. "It's you, babe. It's been in you right from the start."

Paul couldn't breathe, couldn't move, couldn't think, as Giroux chuckled and pulled him into a tight hug.

"Oh my God," he whispered against Paul's ear, "I don't know how I never saw it before. It makes so much sense, how you've always shown so bright, even when it took a bit of work to find everyone else. It's how you stayed away so long – it's been with you this whole time."

He held Paul like they were long-lost brothers.

_Parts of a whole_, the voice whispered, pleased.

Suddenly, desperately, Paul wanted to ask Giroux if he'd always had that voice in the back of his head too. That voice that told him everything the Orange wanted him to hear.

But he didn't, because he had the sick, sinking feeling that Giroux probably didn't.

None of them did, except for him.

_Some parts are bigger than others._

_It's easier to start a puzzle from the edges and work in._

_But you can't complete the picture without the center piece._

"No," Paul whispered. He didn't know what he was refusing – the voice, Giroux, the entire city of Philadelphia.

He wanted to go back to Minnesota and take James with him and tell James how he felt about him and have James agree that he felt the same way, and they'd kiss and be happy and the screen would fade to black, roll credits, The End.

Instead he had Claude Giroux cupping his face in one hand, shaking his head with a positively _glowing_ smile on his face.

"It's okay," he said. "You don't have to keep fighting it. You're home now. You're where you were always meant to be."

"_No_."

He could feel it, warming from the base of his skull down his spine, spreading through his limbs. That liquid, languid heat, sinking into a spa tub after a hard game, a smooth shot of whiskey on a cold night.

His head was so full, stuffed with cotton and flames and voices, familiar and indistinct and identical. They all blurred into one sound, cacophonous and singular, distorted and clarion.

_Home_.

They sounded like home.

"I don't want this," Paul said, tears brimming on his lashes. He didn't know when they'd gotten there. He didn't know if he believed himself anymore.

Giroux's smile was sweet and sad.

"Don't worry." His thumb brushed away a tear from beneath Paul's eye. "You will."

The world shifted, dipped, blurred, and then James was there, throwing himself into Paul's arms again. Paul's knees buckled, but there were bodies around him, holding him up, supporting him.

Of course they would; he was just an extension of them, wasn't he?

Or they were an extension of him.

"Paulie!" James held Paul's face between his hands, just as Claude had, or maybe still was. "Paulie, you're home!"

It was déjà vu and it was something new. James was in his arms again, smiling, so happy, and his eyes – they were so full, and familiar, and _warm_.

Maybe it took Paul until retirement, but he'd finally done it.

"Yeah, Jamie," he breathed. "I'm home."

**Author's Note:**

> I listened to a lot of Tool while writing this because the songs were long and atmospheric. And then just as I got to the climax where Paul came to Philly, the Tool songs ended and my playlist pulled out Matthew Good's cover of "True Love Will Find You in the End" and it was one of the most eerie transitions of my life.
> 
> If you want more of this bullshit, I'm [swedishgoaliemafia](https://swedishgoaliemafia.tumblr.com/) on Tumblr.


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